


The Status Quo

by butterflymind



Category: Yes Minister
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 08:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8883685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflymind/pseuds/butterflymind
Summary: When someone lights a fire, you could put it out. Or you could light a bigger fire, to stop everyone looking at it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foxtwin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtwin/gifts).



> Dear recipient, I hope this will be in line with your request. A note about time period, this is set to be nearly contemporaneous with the show, occurring somewhere in the mid 1980s. However, there are a few anachronisms (regarding newspaper ownerships and expenses registers), for which I plead artistic licence. Also I am not a historian of any stripe, let alone a political historian, so please forgive the probably numerous and obvious howlers.
> 
> **Edit 01/01/17** This is now an improved version thanks to the hard work of my beta reader, who has smoothed out my more imaginative punctuation and grammar. Life made it impossible to get this done before the archive opened (and nearly scrapped this fic altogether), but I'm really glad to have had an opportunity to do it now. All thanks for an improved reading experience should go to them.

As the ministerial car carrying James Hacker MP began its stately progress down Whitehall, Jim checked that his papers were safely secured and out of sight, tucked inside a thick leather folder with no tell-tale sentences peeking out. Then he checked that inside the documents was his copy of the Telegraph, folded back on itself so the masthead was no longer visible. A leak via a badly concealed document would be bad enough, but no MP wanted to be caught reading the Telegraph this week of all weeks. Exiting the car, he crossed the courtyard and stepped inside the department building with a sigh of relief.

“Good morning, Minister.” Tony, the night security guard, was just packing his things and preparing to leave.

“Good morning, Tony. Any daring raids on the ministry in the night?”

Tony, who was not known for his puckish sense of humour, looked at him blankly. “No, Minister. Just the usual few clerical officers run out by the cleaners at midnight.”

“Well, good then.” Jim, feeling slightly awkward, quickly passed by him and ascended the stairs to his own office. Inside, he drew back the curtains and seated himself at his desk. From the folder he withdrew his copy of the Telegraph and scanned quickly through the headlines. The competition bill had gained a small column on the front page he noticed, and wondered if it would have been of any interest at all if it were not about to scupper the plans of one of the Telegraph’s chief rivals. He had just returned to the lead article, reading it more thoroughly and gently tutting to himself, when there was a discreet knock at the door.

“Come in, Bernard.” Jim said without looking up. Bernard entered, and looked at the window in a vaguely surprised way, as if Jim opening his own curtains was something of a novelty. Jim spoke to him without looking up.

“They’ve done poor old Carstairs now.”

“Expenses, Minister?” Bernard asked, looking up from a document he had found lying discarded on the arm of one of the chairs.

“What else? What else does anyone talk about these days other than what MPs are spending their money on?”

“To be fair, Minister, I don’t think they would mind so much if they were spending their own money.”

“Yes well.” Jim said shortly. “Either way, they’ve got poor old John Carstairs over at D&T now.”

“Did they find out his son is his secretary?” Bernard enquired blandly.

Jim frowned. “But I thought his wife was his secretary?”

“Yes, Minister, his wife is his personal secretary. His son is a researcher and constituency secretary. And his daughters work in his policy research department.”

“Good Lord, talk about a family business.”

“Quite the political Von Trapps.” Bernard replied.

Jim snorted. “Do they sing as well?”

“Not for their supper, Minister”

Jim folded the Telegraph and opened the Daily Mirror that was lying on the desk. “Still, I think he’ll be the last one.”

Jim held up the front page. The headline screamed ‘10 Lords A-Sleeping’ and underneath in smaller type ‘(in a bed you paid for)’. Bernard took the paper from Jim’s outstretched hand and skimmed the article. He raised his eyebrows in mild surprise.

“They’ve got hold of the Lord’s expenses now?”

“Yes, Bernard, and with many more of the gory details. It will be a foolish editor who pursues an MP for an over-extravagant lunch when they could be reporting...”-he looked down at the papers on his desk for a suitable example-“here we go, when they could be reporting Lord Archer of Borsetshire’s ten thousand pound claim for putting a ‘goose house and swan swimming pond’ in his back garden.”

“That’s very unfortunate, Minister. For the Lords.”

“Oh yes.” Jim schooled his face into a serious expression. “Very unfortunate. Although they brought it on themselves, of course.” He smiled conspiratorially. “But it does rather play into the PM’s hands, don’t you think?”

“In what way, Minister?” Bernard asked. He was now collecting loose papers and putting them into a variety of folders he carried under one arm. Jim wondered if he would ever see any of those papers again.

“Lords reform, Bernard.” Jim said, exasperated. “It was a major plank of our manifesto. Making sure the Lords were as accountable to the people as the House of Commons.”

“And how accountable is that Minister?” Bernard asked, tucking another piece of paper away.

“Bernard,” Jim said in a warning tone. Bernard gave him a look of bland innocence in return.

“The important thing is,” he continued, “that now we have public opinion on our side, we can finally start putting through a few changes. Shake up the system a bit.”

“Didn’t the PM promise a referendum? On abolishing the Lords?” Bernard removed a pile of papers from under Jim’s nose and replaced it with another one. “That would be less of a shakeup and more of…”

“An earthquake?” Jim supplied. “Well, one says these things in the heat of the polls Bernard, but really, I don’t think he’d go that far…” He paused mid-sentence.

“What is it, Minister?” Jim had opened a copy of the Guardian on top of Bernard’s carefully arranged papers.

“The Guardian has obtained a memo from the PM’s office, examining the options for a referendum on abolishing the House of Lords.”

“And are they in favour of it?”

“Of course they are, it’s the Guardian.” Jim flicked quickly through the other papers on his desk. “Well, none of the others seem to have got hold of it. Not that that means much, they’ll all have it tomorrow. It could be a good thing, of course,” he said in a hopeful tone. “After all, a bit of democracy would do the Lords good. And it’s not like the public would actually abolish them.” He spoke with increasing confidence, then suddenly darted a worried glance in Bernard’s direction. “Is Sir Humphrey in yet?”

“I believe he had a meeting this morning, Minister, but he should be along shortly.”

“He’s not going to be very happy about this, is he?”

“No, Minister.”

“Should I feign ignorance, do you think?”

“I think that might only serve to annoy Sir Humphrey further, Minister.”

Jim looked thoughtful for a moment. “That’s a point.” As if on cue a knock sounded on the office door. “Come in,” Jim called cheerfully. “Off you go, Bernard. Let me know when it’s time for the cabinet briefing, won’t you?”

“Of course, Minister.” Bernard passed Sir Humphrey in the doorway. “Good morning, Sir Humphrey.”

“Good morning, Bernard.” Humphrey said distractedly, making a beeline for Jim’s desk. Bernard glanced behind him, quirked the smallest of eyebrows at the Minister, and beat a swift retreat.

***

Jim had once read, in one of those dreadful American management manuals beloved of young MPs, that a day would only truly be good if he decided it would be and then imposed his will on the universe. Even at the time, flushed with new power, he’d had a suspicion that the universe might not be as receptive to this idea as the book made out. These days, he had learned exactly whose will was imposing on his good day.

“Have you seen the papers, Humphrey?” Humphrey looked slightly affronted by this question. Jim couldn’t be sure if he was offended by the idea he had not read the papers, or the idea that he had.

“Yes, Minister.”

“Things are looking up a bit.”

“Are they, Minister?” There was a polite disinterest in Humphrey’s tone that could have cut steel cables.

“Looks like they’ll finally stop worrying at that MPs’ expenses story.”

“That must be a great relief to you all, Minister,” Humphrey drawled, coming over to the desk. He placed, almost surreptitiously, a sheaf of papers upon it.

“Well, not for me, obviously.” Jim said, then thought for a moment. “I mean, not for me personally. I never had anything for them to find. But obviously for some of my colleagues…” He paused again. “I mean, obviously, my parliamentary colleagues, on both sides of the house, although more on one side than the other, if you know what I mean. For some of them, I’m sure this has come as a great relief.”

“I’m sure it has.” Humphrey had come to stand directly across the desk from Jim, watching him with a blank, even expression.

“Is there something wrong, Humphrey?”

“Well, Minister.” Humphrey sat down, never a good sign. “I wonder if you happened to notice what story has replaced your sticky fingered colleagues on the front pages?”

“Oh yes.” Jim looked pleased. “I thought that was a bit of a masterstroke of the PM’s, actually.”

“A masterstroke?” Humphrey sounded blandly enquiring. Jim’s senses went into high alert.

“Yes,” he said carefully, thinking through his words at every step. “The party’s been banging on about Lords reform for ages, but no one can ever agree. And the public will be furious after the revelations about the Lords expenses.”

“Leaked to distract them from the Commons expenses.”

“I don’t think that’s what happened, Humphrey.”

“Of course you don’t, Minister.”

“Well, anyway, since public opinion is so strong, and the Lords so contentious in the party, why not let the public decide?”

“But a referendum?” Jim noted with interest that Humphrey had changed colour.

“Yes Humphrey, why not?”

“Why not? Are you mad?” The explosion was imminent, Jim could tell. It was temporarily forestalled by a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Jim said cheerfully. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Humphrey gently vibrating, and he couldn’t help but be amused.

“Minister?” Bernard appeared around the door. “Do you have those papers for the afternoon committee? They’ll need to sent up to the House before noon.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Jim shuffled the papers on his desk and Bernard stepped into the room. He eyed Sir Humphrey, and gave Jim an amused glance.

“Are you quite alright, Sir Humphrey?”

Jim looked up. “Oh, Humphrey and I were just discussing the government’s latest policy announcement, weren’t we, Humphrey?”

“Yes,” Humphrey replied, glowering.

“Oh, the one about Lords reform?” Bernard continued cheerfully. Jim handed him a stack of papers and he began to flick through them, checking the contents.

“Yes,” Humphrey repeated. “I was just about to explain to the Minister why such a move might not be in the country’s best interests.”

Jim raised an eyebrow. “The country’s best interests? Or the civil service’s best interests?”

“They are one and the same, Minister.”

“So you always tell me.”

“Well in this case, I would say it is not in the interests of the country, the civil service or the government, Minister.”

“What rubbish,” Jim replied, irritated. “The public pay for the Lords, but they never get a say on who’s in there. Why shouldn’t they have a vote on it? Bit of democracy, that’ll wake the old codgers up.”

“And if they vote to abolish the Lords, Minister?”

Jim looked momentarily worried. “They wouldn’t do that,” he said quickly. “And anyway, if they did do that we would have to abide by their wishes.” He thought about this for a moment. ”Eventually.”

“No no no, Minister.” Humphrey shook his head. “They’ll be no kicking this result into the next parliament. Once you’ve roused the sleeping tiger of public opinion, it will have to be fed. If you want to keep your seat, that is.”

“Well then, we would just have to follow through on our word.”

“Even if the word is ‘suicide’, Minister?”

Jim puffed himself up. “That’s democracy, Humphrey.”

“Yes, Minister, but this is government. You must try not to confuse the two.”

“Do we not govern by democracy?”

“We elect parties by democracy, Minister.” Humphrey paused. “Of a sort. But once ministers are elected, they act through the machinery of government.”

“And the machinery of government should do what the public wants!” Jim exclaimed. He grumbled more quietly, “Or at least, do what I want now and again.”

Humphrey sighed deeply. “The entire machinery of government is designed to tell the public what they want. We can’t just throw the whole mechanism into reverse.”

“But we must do what the public wants,” Jim said stubbornly.

“The public don’t know what they want, Minister, they only know what they don’t want.”

“And what’s that?”

“Whatever they already have.”

“Ten minutes until your briefing, Minister,” Bernard said.

Jim began gathering his papers together. “Well, Humphrey, as much as I would like to continue arguing the points of good government with you, I must be going.”

“This isn’t about good government,” Humphrey said hotly. “This is about survival of the government. Of your government. Of any government.”

Jim stopped at the door. “Surely that’s a bit dramatic, Humphrey.”  

Humphrey sighed in exasperation and stood up. “No, no, it is not,” he said. “Minister, if this referendum goes ahead the Lords will be abolished. And from that moment on every delayed decision, every failure of legislation, every poorly thought out plan and undercooked scheme will be your fault.”

“My fault, Humphrey?”

“Your collective faults. As a government, as a House. There’ll be no more kicking unfavourable legislation upstairs so it can die quietly. The Commons will have to take full responsibility for its actions.”

Jim, one hand on the doorknob, blanched. “It must be stopped.”

“Yes, Minister.”

***

“The problem is, that the PM doesn’t want to stop it.” Jim relaxed into the sofa, sipping a much needed drink. “And what’s more, he wants me to administer it.”

“Well, you are in charge of administrative affairs,” Annie said reasonably, mixing her own drink and coming to sit beside him. “Who else would administer it?”

“Anyone else,” Jim said plaintively. “Anyone else at all.”

“But surely the PM must be able to see that it would be a disaster if the government lost.”

“That’s just the problem, he doesn’t think we will lose. He thinks this will placate the wilder fringes of the back benches, and give us a mandate for some Lords reform.”

“And why are you so certain that you will lose?”

“Well, Humphrey says…”

“Humphrey isn’t always right, Jim.”

“I know. But on this, I think he might just be. Of course, if the PM’s right and the media are on our side we might just manage it.”

Annie snorted. “Well, that’s not very likely.”

“I know that we won’t get all of them behind us. Some of them will be ideologically in favour, at least in theory. And of course the scandals over expenses won’t have helped.”

“Yes, it’s unfortunate that leaked out at just the wrong time,” Annie said thoughtfully. “But I didn’t mean that. I meant all of Mulcaire’s papers will be against you.”

“What? Why?”

“Because of the television bill. Last year, you remember. Mulcaire wanted to branch out into independent television. The Commons approved it, the Lords blocked it. It bounced back and forth for a bit and eventually went out of the window.”

“Oh God,” said Jim, going pale. “I’d forgotten.”

“Well, I don’t think Mulcaire will have forgotten. And I doubt many of the Lords are on his Christmas card list.”

“And they’ll be on a different list altogether if they pass the competition bill. That’s about to scupper his ITV plan all over again.” Jim sighed. “But the combined circulation of the Mulcaire papers is almost a third of the country. They’ll tear us to shreds if we don’t have a referendum.”

“And they’ll make sure you lose if you do,” Annie said succinctly, draining her glass. She plucked Jim’s tumbler from his unresisting fingers and went to the drinks cabinet to refill them.

***

Humphrey shifted in his chair. He had spent a great deal of time shifting in these chairs, and although he could not work out how, he was convinced that Sir Arnold had somehow had them specially stuffed to make them as uncomfortable as possible. He considered it likely that this was some sort of test for his underlings, to see who could squirm most imperceptibly. Humphrey had long ago mastered the art of squirming so imperceptibly even he sometimes didn’t realise he was doing it, and yet he still found these chairs a challenge. Still, he thought with some satisfaction, today it was not he who should be squirming in his seat.

“I simply don’t understand how this could happen,” Humphrey said, his tone just the right side of innocent confusion.

Sir Arnold sighed deeply; he had been staring out of the window in contemplation and when he turned Humphrey saw, for the first time, that he looked tired.

“It is the tyranny of the modern world,” he said, moving to the cabinet and pouring himself a glass of port. He inclined the bottle towards Humphrey, who nodded and accepted a glass. “When they just gave statements, we had the proper level of control.” He sat himself across from Humphrey and, Humphrey was delighted to observe, squirmed slightly. “Even when they said something unfortunate in front of the press, you had an opportunity to influence how it was reported. A nod here, a wink there, and everyone was happy. But now, with television,” he said it as if it was a dirty word, “following the PM everywhere, listening to what he says, reporting what he says. It’s unsupportable.”

“I quite agree,” Humphrey said in a conciliatory tone. “The enemy is inside the gates.”

“The enemy is inside the house, slurping tea from the best china. Do you know who rang me up yesterday?” He continued, without waiting for a response. “The editor of the Sun! The editor, of a newspaper, ringing me directly for comment.”

Humphrey felt himself pale. “Surely you didn’t…”

Arnold shook his head forcefully, almost spilling his port. “Of course not. Joan fended them off, thank goodness. But still, to think it was the done thing to call my secretary, and ask to speak to me!”

“All very trying,” Humphrey agreed.

“And now of course, the PM has gone and landed us in this mess.”

“That’s precisely what I wished to speak to you about…” Humphrey began, but was cut off.

“Of course you did. That’s what everyone wishes to speak to me about. I have spoken about nothing else all day. So how does your Minister stand? Dementedly in favour or rabidly against?”

“Mildly in favour to begin with, but I think I have brought him over to our side.” Humphrey could not help the small note of self-satisfaction that crept into his voice. He could count the number of times he had been in the situation of succeeding where Sir Arnold had failed on one hand, without bothering the major digits.

“Good. It must not happen, Humphrey, you must see that.”

“Of course not Sir Arnold, it would be a calamity. But the question is, does the PM see that?”

“I have brought to his attention the very many negative outcomes that could stem from this decision. But sadly, he is imbued with confidence as resilient as it is misplaced.”

“He thinks he will win?” Humphrey asked incredulously.

“He is certain of it. He believes, you see, that the public will not vote against reason and the status quo.”

Humphrey looked honestly shocked. “Is he mad?”

“Possibly. But worse than that, on this he is intransigent.”

“Well then, how can we stop it?”

Sir Arnold looked thoughtful again. It was a look that both comforted and disconcerted Humphrey. “I suppose there is no chance of a senior Minister opposing him.”

“With the public baying for noble blood? They might just as well build their own pyre.”

“Very true.”

Silence fell for a few more minutes. Sir Arnold murmured, almost to himself. “Then that is the problem we must solve.”

“What is, Sir Arnold?”

“The public, Humphrey. If the PM is determined to pursue this damn fool scheme, we must ensure that the results are the best for the country. Or preferably, convince him he doesn’t need to pursue it all.”

Humphrey thought about this for a moment. “I suppose, should the public back the Lords, then the PM’s hands would be tied. But do you really think it likely, Sir Arnold? Even twisting every arm on Fleet Street would only just get you over the line, and Mulcaire and his editor cronies are very unlikely to be open to persuasion. And if the PM is an intransigent as you say…”

“He is only intransigent because he is certain he will get the result he wants. He assumes that the negative publicity surrounding the Lords will bring him a narrow win. A narrow win would provide him with the mandate he requires to reform the Lords, placating the more lunatic fringes of the back benches, without full abolition.”

Humphrey nodded in understanding. “Whereas a strong win would give him no mandate whatsoever, and no way of controlling his own party.”

“Precisely, Humphrey. Not a favourable position for a PM who can invite his majority around for supper.”

“And a loss, of course, would be disastrous.”

“Indeed. Which is why it must not be allowed to happen.” Sir Arnold rose and went to his desk, flipping through his extensive rolodex. He considered first one card, then another, muttering to himself and gently tutting like a disappointed schoolmaster. Finally he selected one, copied its details onto a piece of notepaper, and handed it to Humphrey. “I think he should do nicely.”

“For what?” asked Humphrey, startled.

“For whatever you think best, Humphrey.”

***

“And he gave you no more information?” Jim asked, exasperated. He was staring at the piece of paper Humphrey had just given him.

“No, Minister.” Humphrey sighed, “Sir Arnold has very strict rules about maintaining plausible deniability.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“He means if Sir Arnold doesn’t tell Humphrey what to do with that name, then he can’t be blamed when it all goes wrong.” Bernard spoke from one of the chairs in which he had seated himself after vocal permission from Jim, and more importantly a raised eyebrow of acquiescence from Sir Humphrey.

“But he just expects us to work it out?”

“No, Minister, he expects me to work it out.” Humphrey retrieved the paper and stared at it again.

Jim frowned. “What do we know about this fellow then?”

“Donald Brawton? He’s a backbencher, Minister. His constituency is somewhere in Tyne and Wear,” Bernard supplied.

Jim uttered a short laugh. “Good Lord, and he commutes all the way to parliament?”

“He maintains a house and does his surgeries, but he does his best not to actually live there.” Humphrey gave a delicate shudder. “Who would?” He turned to Bernard. “What do we know about his voting record?”

Bernard consulted a file he had borrowed from a friend in the cabinet office. “He’s usually at the division. In fact, he’s voted on all but two of the bills passed this year.”

“And which way does he vote?”

“Generally, against his own side. He’s voted against the government nine times, despite the Whips’ Office.”

“Oh God,” said Jim, his face suddenly clearing. “I remember him now. Great hulking blond chap, trousers always a little too short. I remember Fizzy Wiggins at the Whips’ Office telling me they could never get him into line. Apparently there’s only so much persuading you can do when the chap you’re talking to is six foot four.”

“Where does he stand on Lords reform?” Humphrey asked.

“Directly behind them,” Jim said. “As long as there’s a cliff in front. He’s part of the new left.”

Bernard looked curious. “Is that different to the old left?”

“Oh yes,” Jim replied.  “The old left learned their politics on the pickets. The new left learned them by reading about the pickets, and coming to the conclusion they could have done it much better.”

Bernard was continuing to flick through the file. “Oh,” He said suddenly.

“What is it, Bernard?” Humphrey asked eagerly.

Bernard took a selection of newspaper clippings out of the file. “Looks like he has an opinion column.”

“Where?” Jim asked surprised. “I’ve never seen it.”

Bernard squinted at the top of the clippings. “The Sunderland Echo. Is that not on your reading list, Minister?”

“Bit of a trek for the paper-boy, Bernard.”  

“Well, he’s been writing about abolishing the Lords since the PM talked about reform during the election.” Bernard scanned a selection of the clippings. “Looks like he’s not been best impressed with the lack of movement.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t been picked up by one of the nationals. Sounds like his opinions are right up Mulcaire’s street.”

“Not yet Minister,” Humphrey said, “but I wouldn’t rule it out in the near future. The question is, why have we been given his name?”

“Can we discredit him? And discredit the reform movement while we’re at it?” Jim knew it sounded feeble even as he said it.

“Unlikely, Minister.” Bernard replied. “My friend told me when I asked for his file that the staff of his constituency refer to him as ‘Daz’.”

“As a nickname?” Humphrey sounded faintly disgusted.

“No, Humphrey, because he’s whiter than white.” Jim explained, having got the joke.

“Not because he likes to knock up housewives,” Bernard put in.

“Bernard!” Sir Humphrey exclaimed, scandalised.

“Sorry, Sir Humphrey.”

“Well if we can’t discredit him, we will have to think of something else…” Jim was cut short by the phone on his desk.

“Hello?” He paused for a moment. “Yes, put him through. Hello, Prime Minister.” Both Humphrey and Bernard made movements to leave, but Jim motioned to them to remain. “No, Prime Minister, I hadn’t seen that. Well, good for him, I suppose.” Jim chuckled politely then suddenly stopped. “I mean, no, of course, terrible for the campaign, I see that perfectly well.” There was another longer pause. “Well, Prime Minister if you really think that is wise… of course. Of course. I shall be glad to do it. Should we discuss closer to the time? I could ring you at… Oh, you’ll ring me, I see. Yes, goodbye, Prime Minister, goodby—. Oh, he’s gone.” He replaced the phone and sat back heavily in his chair.

“Well, gentlemen, I find it hard to believe that that was a coincidence.”

“What wasn’t, Minister?” Humphrey asked eagerly.

“The Prime Minister has just asked me to do a press conference with him next week, to announce the intention to pass an act through parliament to allow a referendum on the House of Lords.”

“Hardly unexpected, Minister, surely.”

“No, Humphrey, not unexpected. What was unexpected was that the other MP at the press conference will be Donald Brawton.”

Humphrey was shocked. “Whatever has he been invited for?”

“The PM tells me he expects Brawton to be a strong contender for the head of the official opposition in the referendum.”

“But surely there are candidates with a higher profile?”

“There may be now, Humphrey. But it has reached the PM’s ears that Brawton has just signed a deal to write a weekly column for the Sun.”

“Quite the leap from the Sunderland Echo,” Bernard remarked.

“Almost certainly to big to have been made unassisted,” Humphrey agreed. “So the PM is hoping to get to Brawton early?”

“To show good sportsmanship and fair play,” Jim said solemnly. “And in the hope that he’ll have a better chance of settling with the rest of the awkward squad when the dust has settled. Brawton will be expelled from the party, of course, if he doesn’t jump first, but the Whips’ Office have been angling for that for years. I feel a guiding hand in this,” he said pointedly to Humphrey.

“Yes, Minister,” Humphrey agreed slowly, thinking hard.

***

Jim fiddled nervously with a pen. Then picked up his water glass, looked down at the microphone, thought better of it and put the glass down again. Inevitably some water sloshed over his hand. He looked at it with a vague sense of panic, then attempted to wipe it surreptitiously on his trousers. The PM shot him a look that could have frozen lava.

“Sit still,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth. On his other side Donald Brawton sat calm and composed, with the satisfied look that comes to a man being paid five hundred pounds a week to write one newspaper column. That was the rumour, anyway. You never enquired too closely into these matters, just in case someone enquired into you in return. In front of them were the assembled press pack, and the glinting blank faces of the TV cameras, which always seemed to Jim as if they were predators, waiting to pounce.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the PM began. The room fell quiet, and flashbulbs began to pop at regular intervals. Jim resisted the urge to lift a hand to his face and wipe away the sweat that was gathering on his top lip. “This will be a short statement, to announce the government’s plans for a referendum on the abolition of the House of Lords.” He sounded so smooth. Jim had no idea how he did it. “This is, as you know, in line with the policies on Lords reform laid out in our manifesto. And, I think, shows that we are a government that can be trusted to keep our promises.”

Jim was certain he heard Brawton snort and mutter “eventually” in a mutinous tone, but fortunately he was far enough from the microphones for it not to be picked up.

“We will shortly be introducing a bill to parliament to lay the basis in law for a referendum on the House of Lords. Should this bill pass…” Another snort from Brawton, this time loud enough for a few of the journalists in the front row to notice. They scribbled frantically on their pads, and Jim winced. “Then we will be looking to arrange such a referendum as soon as is practicable.” He gestured to Jim. “My honourable friend James Hacker, Minister for Administrative Affairs, will head the department tasked with drafting this bill and organising any future referendum.” Attention swung to him, and Jim suppressed the insane urge to give the press a little wave that such moments always produced in him. Feeling a statement was required he was just clearing his throat when the PM, with a slightly panicked look in his eye, turned to the man on his other side dragging the attention of the media with him. Jim breathed out in relief, but it was short lived. The PM had introduced his ‘honourable friend Donald Brawton’ but was uncharacteristically struggling to find an appropriate description for him. Presumably ‘troublemaker in chief’ was too on the nose. Unfortunately Donald seemed to have taken this second of struggling silence as an opportunity to launch into a statement of his own.

“I must say, I was delighted and surprised to be invited here today,” he began, in a thick Tyneside accent. Humphrey had previously assured Jim that this was completely fake: Donald had been born in Surrey and educated at Abingdon, in the environs of which his family now resided. “I am, of course, as I’m sure you all know, very open about my opinions about the Lords,” he almost spat the word, “ruling over ordinary folk who haven’t even heard of most of them, let alone elected them.”

“But his father was a judge,” the PM whispered plaintively to Jim. Then he seemed to remember the TV cameras and sat up straight, his face falling into a mask of blank interest. Jim did his best to emulate him, but only succeeded in sending his water glass tumbling over. The resulting spillage began to seep slowly across the table. The PM shot him another glacial look but Donald, in his element, did not seem to notice.

“So I’m glad to hear the government is finally going to do something about it. And I’m sure my honourable friend Mr Hacker will be ensuring fair play for all sides” He looked over at Jim, who was using the prepared text of the PM’s statement to mop up some of the water.

Realising attention had turned to him he looked up, startled. “Oh yes, of course,” he said. “We at the Department of Administrative Affairs take our duty to ensure a free and fair referendum very seriously.”

“Good,” said Donald decisively, forestalling any further remarks Jim might have made. “What we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is an opportunity to seize democracy in this country by the scruff of the neck, to make it work for us, the ordinary people, not the toffs in the cabinet and the civil service. We’ve all seen how they’ve been living off the hard earned money we’ve been giving them in our taxes.” As he continued, Jim realised he was experiencing a vague sense of déjà vu; ‘it’s one of his columns’ he realised, ‘he’s quoting from his own columns.’ Whatever it was, it was going down very well, the rate of flashing bulbs had gone up substantially and the cyclopean eyes of the TV cameras were focussed squarely on him. It was a shame, as they were all missing the extraordinary colour the PM had gone.

“Should we stop him?” Jim whispered urgently.

“How?” the PM replied in a despairing tone. It was a good question, Jim conceded. But fortunately Donald, having presumably run out of copy, was winding up.

When he finally finished the PM said “Thank you all for coming” in an oddly strangled voice, and quickly departed the table. Donald, with a flourish, also left. Jim remained, waiting for the lights on the cameras to switch off, and the journalists to depart. He gave them a vaguely encouraging smile and hoped that when he was finally forced to get up, no one would notice the damp patches on his trousers.

***

“What I don’t understand is why he had him there at all,” Humphrey said. He was swirling a glass of Jim’s better-not-best scotch and clinking the ice. It was beginning to grate on Jim’s nerves.

“He told me afterwards it was on the advice of Sir Arnold,” Jim replied. “Well, that’s more a paraphrase of what he actually said.”

“I can imagine.” Humphrey put down his glass and steepled his fingers, deep in thought. “But if Sir Arnold suggested it, he must have had something in mind.”

“Has the PM offended him recently?”

Humphrey was silent for a long time. Jim drained his glass, feeling uncomfortable. After a few moments there was a knock at the door, and Bernard entered, carrying the daily newspapers.

“Good morning, Minister, Sir Humphrey.” Jim responded, but Humphrey merely waved a vague hand in Bernard’s direction. Bernard quirked an eyebrow at Jim.

“I suppose you saw the press conference last night?”

Bernard grimaced. “Yes, Minister. It was... unfortunate.”

“Wasn’t it just. Well, Humphrey and I are considering our next move.”

“Can I be of any help?”

“Well, you might just as well join in, Bernard. Sit down.” Bernard sat, and Jim gave him a glass of his slightly-less-better-not-best scotch. Humphrey remained silent; Jim, on the other hand, felt an almost pathological need to speak.

“The thing is, I’m not against Lords reform. Not in principle.”

“Only in practice, Minister?” Bernard asked.

“No! I’m for it in practice too. But the PM is using a claw hammer to crack a nut.”

“I think you mean a sledgehammer.”

“Do I? What’s the difference?”

“About twenty pounds, Minister.”

Jim thought about this. “Well, I don’t suppose that makes much difference to the nut.” He sighed. “The problem is, even if we do manage to stop this referendum, what will we do about Lords reform? It’s a good idea. And more to the point, we made a promise to do it.”

Humphrey, who had been staring into the middle distance, suddenly turned his eyes on him. “Minister, when this is over, that promise must go the way of all election promises. It must float gently away, over the horizon, and then sink without trace.”

Jim was indignant. “Is that what you think we do Humphrey? Take the public’s hard earned trust and put it in a leaky boat?”

“One might say there have been few better analogies for this government, Minister. But think of it more as sailing the great ship of state, passing by the siren call of populism and not driving the parliamentary system onto the rocks.”

“But you can’t ignore the siren call, Humphrey, that’s the point.”

“You can if you’re tied to the mast, Minister,” Bernard supplied.

“Exactly. And he who is tied to the mast is most likely to go down with the ship.”

“But not if we can sail past the rocks, Minister,” Humphrey said, his eyes gleaming. He turned to Bernard. “When is the final reading of the competition bill due?”

Bernard looked momentarily startled. “In the Lords? Next Thursday.”

“Hmm, we'll have to be quick about it then.”

“Quick about what?” Jim asked. “Humphrey? Do you have a plan?”

Humphrey was smiling. “Oh yes, Minister.”

***

“To be honest, Jim, I was a bit surprised to get your call.” Donald Brawton was sipping the third glass of an eye-wateringly expensive cognac Jim had bought him. He had offered him ale first, just to see what would happen.

“Oh really?”

“Well, I thought after the press conference, you know. I got the impression you thought I was a bit forthright.”

“Oh no, Donald,” Jim assured him with a chuckle. “Nothing of the sort. It was exactly the sort of thing this debate needs if you ask me. Less pussyfooting around, more honest opinions. After all, the public need to know what they’re getting. How can we expect them to make the right decision if we’re not honest with them?”

“Exactly.” Donald leaned forward eagerly. “Let’s face it, nobody out there really knows what they do, do they? Or what they stop us doing.”

“What do you mean?” Jim asked, taking a sip of his own drink. As he got further down the cognac Donald was becoming more animated. Jim began to think it was worth the price after all.

“Well, look at the bill passing through at the moment. It’s a bloody mess.”

“The competition bill? I didn't think it looked so bad.”

“Well of course it doesn’t when your seat is in the Midlands!” Donald’s accent, which had been drifting towards Surrey the further he got down his glass, returned violently to the far reaches of the North. “But it will kill the industry in my constituency.”

“Really?” Jim feigned ignorance. “I don’t remember seeing anything that dramatic in it. Mostly just stuff about the newspapers, wasn’t it?”

“Oh it was when it came through us,” Donald agreed, sipping his drink mulishly. “But that was before it went through two readings and a committee in the Lords. Have you seen their amendments?”

“No, not yet. They’ve not published the marshalled list yet.”

“Well I have, and they’ve made a right pig’s ear of it. They’ve taken out the protections for my constituency, and they’ve added enough oversight of the media to scupper Peter’s ITV takeover.” As soon as he said this, Donald clearly realised he’d said too much. A glint of panic came into his eyes.

“Peter Mulcaire?” Jim asked carefully.

“Yes, well, not that that matters as much as my constituents. But yes, still. He’s a powerful man, Jim, we’d all do better if we keep him with us.”

“I suppose that is one way of looking at it.” Jim was beginning to enjoy himself.

“Anyway,” Donald said a little too loudly. “It’s the principle that really matters. They're stifling good British industry, Jim, and they’ll stifle the markets while they’re at it. You can’t control market forces, and they shouldn’t try.”

“Controlling market forces? That seems a tall order for one little bill.”

“It’s not just that bill, Jim, it’s all the bills. We all play ping-pong until those relics are happy, and nothing ever gets done. How are we supposed to improve things if everything we do is stifled?”

Jim very nearly said something about MPs who stifled the bills of their own party, but thought better of it. Instead he said, “I don’t know it’s as bad as all that.”

Donald eyes had gained a maniacal light. “I know that it is!” he said, emphasising his point by jabbing his finger into Jim’s shoulder. Jim shuffled back as far as the barstool would allow. “And if the PM has his way it will be just as bad, or worse!”

“Well, I think the PM is quite keen on Lords reform, really.”

“But it’s not reform we need, it’s abolition! Shove them all out on their unelected ears, and give the country the upper chamber it deserves!”

“I’m really not sure we want to do that.”

“I am. What the country needs is dynamism, radical change, one clear vision.” Jim secretly suspected that the person who needed clear vision most at the moment was Donald. Nevertheless, he played along.

“Do you think that’s what we’ll get, though? Do you really think the public will vote for such a thing?”

Donald smiled, all teeth. “The PM doesn’t,” he said with grim satisfaction.

“I suppose it will very much depend on the campaign,” Jim said thoughtfully. “If it had the right kind of personality, the right kind of leadership.” He could see Donald visibly puffing up. “There are a few big beasts in the party I could see going for it.” The deflation was almost comical.

“Who do you think then?” he asked sullenly.

“Well, Charles maybe, or Stephen. Even Richard if he was pushed.”

Donald was incensed. “But they’re not reformers!”

“No, but as you said, the PM doesn’t want radical reform. No, let Charles or Stephen run a moderate campaign, not too flashy, quite boring. Result, low turnout, and a win for the status quo. I mean, I assume that would be the PM’s idea.”

Donald was thinking. The effect of the cognac was making the process almost palpable. “Then someone else would have to step in first, wouldn’t he.”

Jim looked shocked. “Without the PM’s say so? He would have to be a very brave man. They’d almost certainly withdraw the whip, maybe even ask him to resign from the party. And without a party machine, how would he get his message across? He’d need public support, some sort of mandate.  It would be a very dangerous move. Courageous, I suppose, but very dangerous.”

Donald was nodding slowly. He drained the rest of his glass and smiled at Jim.

“Not to worry,” he said, putting his glass down on the bar and very nearly missing. “We’ll sort it out. First the bill, and then the whole bloody lot of them.”

“But I thought the commons was generally in favour of the competition bill?” Jim prodded.

“We’ll see tomorrow.” Donald grinned at him, and climbed gingerly off his bar stool. “Must be going, Jim. Things to do, people to see and all that.” He gave Jim a watery handshake. “Columns to write,” he added with a grin.

***

“Well?” Humphrey asked urgently, before Jim had even managed to sit down.

“I think he’s going to do it,” he replied, sinking gratefully into a real chair.

“Tonight?”

“If he can remember which way up the pen goes.” At Humphrey’s pained expression Jim relented. “Yes, yes, tonight. Which means it will be in copy editor’s hands tomorrow, and the paper on Thursday.”

“Excellent work, Minister.”

“Well I didn’t really have to do much.” Jim closed his eyes to stop the room spinning. Once Donald had left, and on the assumption that a little more damage to his wallet no longer mattered, Jim had tried a glass of the cognac. It had been rather like being hit by the best bullet you ever tasted. “He’s very self-propelled.”

“Troublemakers always are,” said Humphrey darkly.

“And what about your side?” Jim asked.

“Bernard is over there now. If you catch the old dears between supper and cocoa, they’ll agree to anything.”

“Sometimes you terrify me Humphrey. Do you mean to say you know the best times to manipulate members of the House? I suppose for us MPs it’s before we’ve had our dinner, is it?”

“Oh no, Minister. After dinner. Before you’ve reached the bar.”

Jim sighed. “And the media side, is that all fixed up?”

“Oh yes, Minister. I spoke with Geoffrey Parker at the BBC. He’s a Bailie man. Very sound.”

“You and your Oxford cliques, Humphrey. No wonder democracy is going to the dogs.”

“As much as I would like to believe Geoffrey is acting purely in the spirit of loyalty and brotherhood, Minister, it may be worth recalling that he was sacked from the Times early in his career.”

“Oh really? Why?”

“Well the story I have always heard is that when the new proprietor took over, he sacked everyone who’s hands were too clean.”

“Good Lord. And he’s been bitter about it all these years?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Minister. But it is possible he has been biding his time, as it were.”

“Biding his time?”

“Well Geoffrey once told me there was only one way to keep your hands clean in journalism. Wear gloves.”

***

The paper hit the desk with a decisive thump.

“Has he done it?” Humphrey asked, his face a picture of studied calm.

Jim smiled broadly. “Oh yes, Humphrey, one hundred percent, all the way, over the top. Shall I read it to you?”

Humphrey grimaced. “Just the edited highlights if you don’t mind, Minister. I don’t think I could cope with the full revolutionary at this time of the morning.”

“Right you are, Humphrey.” Jim snapped the paper open. “‘I’m a working man…’” he began, then immediately stopped as Humphrey made a derisive sound. “I know, Humphrey, but it gets much worse from here.”

“Apologies, Minister.”

Jim began again. “‘I’m a working man, I do my job, and I pay my taxes, so that my hard earned money can go to paying for hospitals for our sick, and schools for our children.’” Jim paused as he scanned down the page. “He continues in that vein for a while.” He commented, still glancing over the newsprint. “Born and raised, blah blah blah, then… oh yes, then he gets a bit more specific about the competition bill. ‘A bill, lawfully passed through the house of commons, can be changed beyond all recognition by the unelected, unaccountable members of the House of Lords, until it no longers stands for the things your elected MPs wished it to stand for.’”

“And then it’s sent back to the Commons to be changed back again,” Humphrey said indignantly. “Until everybody is happy. Or at least, equally miserable.”

“He seems to have left that part out,” Jim said wryly. “Where was I? Oh yes. It no longer stands for the things your elected MPs wished it to stand for. And it affects real working people. Just now, a bill is close to passing that will cost my own constituency hundreds of jobs, thanks to the ill-considered amendments imposed on it by the Lords.’” Jim chuckled. “I notice he doesn’t mention the same amendments will cost his new boss a very lucrative takeover deal.”

“Or that the bill in its current form would never pass,” Humphrey grumbled. Jim had a feeling that he was more annoyed by the misrepresentation of protocol than by anything else.

“Anyway, he goes on like that for a while. Where’s the bit about… Oh, here it is.” Jim cleared his throat portentously. “‘So I have decided to take a stand, for working people, like all of us. I have decided to take a stand against this unelected, unrepresentative elite, that takes the power out of working men’s hands, all the while growing fat on their hard earned money. As such, I would like to announce that I have decided to quit the government.’”

Humphrey snorted again, unable to contain himself. “He was never in the government!”

Jim waved a placating hand.. “I know, Humphrey, I know.” He continued to read. “‘I have decided to quit the government, and to resign as an MP, in order to force a by-election. I shall contest the election as an independent, on a platform of abolition of the house of Lords, and an end to government by heredity, not merit. My loyal constituents, a microcosm of working people all over the British Isles, will then, if they choose, provide me with a mandate to demand the referendum so grudgingly offered to us by the Prime Minister, to demand that it is fought fairly, and to demand that the result is carried out. And I will fight for a fairer system, a better system, where the working man can be assured that it is his will that determines the government of this country.’”

The was a long silence. “Do you think we should applaud?” asked Humphrey eventually.

“I suspect he would prefer a waving pitchfork.” Jim looked at his watch. “What time is the next act?”

“Geoffrey suggested we might find the six o’clock news edifying viewing.”

“Do you think we should have a television brought in?”

“Certainly, Minister, I shall ask Bernard to arrange one.”

Jim was about to reply when the telephone on his desk rang. He answered, but only managed to say a few words before being silenced by an obvious torrent coming from the other end. After a few minutes, and the barest of platitudes, he hung up.

“I have to go over to Number Ten,” Jim said, gathering papers from his desk in a distracted fashion. “The PM wants me to help draft a statement.” He grinned at Humphrey. “Do see about that television, won’t you?”

***

“And for a full report of what has been an eventful day in Westminster, we pass you over to our politics editor, Geoffrey Parker.”

The picture changed from the studio to a grass lawn outside the Houses of Parliament, on which generations of journalists had conducted interviews of greater or lesser substance, containing ordinary or extraordinary numbers of lies. The three men in Jim’s office all leant forward eagerly, towards the tiny television that Bernard had somehow managed to acquire from the depths of the ministry. Geoffrey Parker, a seasoned correspondent, looked calm and authoritative, with only the merest hint of smugness showing around his eyes.

“Thank you, Andrew.” Geoffrey’s tone was suitably sombre. “And good evening on what has been an extraordinary day in the Commons. This morning Donald Brawton, the backbench MP who last week appeared with the Prime Minister and the Minister for Administrative Affairs to announce the introduction of the bill that will permit a referendum on the existence of the House of Lords, resigned from the party and gave up his seat in order to pursue the abolition of the Lords as an independent. The announcement of his resignation, and the reasons behind it, were detailed in his regular column in the Sun newspaper. Mr Brawton cited specifically the amendments made by the Lords to the competition bill, which he claimed would damage industries based in his constituency. However, government sources have informed me that no such amendments were present in the bill at its third reading this afternoon. And a few minutes ago, the Prime Minister released the following statement.”

The picture cut again to the studied blandness of a cabinet briefing room. The Prime Minister stood at the centre lectern, with Jim a serious and silent presence on one side of him. ‘I’m starting to look really old,’ Jim thought as he stared at himself, uncomfortably rubbing a hand under his neck to see if it felt as flabby in real life as it appeared on screen. He did his best to focus on the actual words the PM was speaking.

“It was with great regret that I received, late last night, the resignation of my honourable friend Donald Brawton. Donald and I did not see eye to eye on many issues, but I regarded him highly as a dynamic and strong minded member of my party, who brought honesty and integrity to all his work both for his constituents, and for the government.”

“He means, thank God I’m rid of the awkward sod,” Jim translated.

“However,” the PM continued, subtly changing his posture at the lectern, “I feel that the party must respond to some of the allegations made in the article that appeared in the Sun newspaper today. Particularly, in regard to the competition bill that has today received its third reading in the House of Lords. I have spoken with the government departments responsible for drafting the bill, and to the Lords who have tabled amendments for debate. All of them assure me that there is no amendment to this bill that will have the effects on British industry described in this column. In fact, the Lords have tabled an amendment to enhance protection of home-grown industries.”

The PM leaned a little further forward, his posture somewhere between coquettish and threatening. Flashbulbs began to fire repeatedly in the audience. “What this bill will provide is a strong regulatory framework to prevent the unfair monopolising of our industries, be they the mechanical, the electrical, or even the media, where such monopolies would be a detriment to the public good. In this way, we hope to ensure the continued growth of British industries, and the promotion of homegrown talent.”

The image cut back to the studio. “So, Geoffrey, what are we to make of the Prime Minister’s statement?”

“The Prime Minister is clearly trying to emphasise two points. The robustness of the competition bill, and the role of the Lords in protecting British industries.” Geoffrey shifted slightly. “The first message must be as much for the MPs as for the general public. The competition bill has already had a torturous journey through the Commons; I don’t think the PM wants anyone rocking the boat when it is so close to passing into law.”

“Do we know why Mr Brawton thought such an amendment had been applied to the bill?”

“That seems to be a curious story. I spoke this afternoon with a civil service spokesman who told me that no such amendment has been placed on any of the marshalled lists, published before the debates. Indeed, everyone I spoke to seems to be somewhat baffled where Mr Brawton received this information. The most likely reason, my source told me, was that he had heard a rumour that such an amendment existed, and wrote his column based on that. In fact, the amendment tabled by the Lords will heavily favour the industries in Mr Brawton’s constituency.”

Jim turned sharply to Bernard and Humphrey. “I thought the amendment did exist?”

“The amendment never officially existed, Minister,” Bernard explained. “Because it was never on the marshalled list for the third reading.”

“So what happened to it?”

Bernard shrugged. “It must have been withdrawn before the list was drawn up. Or so Tom told me.”

“And who’s Tom when he’s at home?”

“He’s responsible for drawing up the marshalled list.”

“So he’s the marshal?”

“I suppose you could say that, Minister.” Bernard’s facial expression suggested that you definitely shouldn’t.

Humphrey nodded approvingly. “Is that Tom Carter-Finch in the Lords office? Solid man, very dependable. We should look into getting him something better.”

“Should we?” Jim asked.

“Oh yes. He’s got a good reputation in the Lords office. And he went to school with Bernard. Didn’t he, Bernard?”

A faint flush had risen about Bernard’s collar. “Yes, Sir Humphrey.”

“Oh, I see,” Jim said dryly. His attention returned to the screen. “Hush, it’s just getting interesting.”

“Mr Brawton’s name has of course been mentioned in the last few weeks as a potential official leader for the abolition campaign in the forthcoming House of Lords referendum,” Geoffrey was saying. “And in his column he speaks strongly of fighting a new by-election on a platform of Lords reform, essentially using the by-election to gain a mandate for his own programme of abolition. It is certainly true that should he win, the PM might find it very hard not to appoint his group the official opposition.”

“So the motives for Mr Brawton’s resignation are purely political?” asked the presenter.

Geoffrey shook his head. “I am sure if you asked Mr Brawton this morning, he would have told you his motives were purely in the interests of his constituents. However, in a further twist, I have just been informed that new information on MPs’ expenses has been uncovered by journalists from the Daily Telegraph. Their article, of which I have a seen a pre-publication version, declares new expenses and register of member’s interests, including entries for Mr Brawton.”

Jim raised his eyebrows. “He declared his income?” He sounded shocked. “Why? No one declares an income unless they absolutely have to.”

“Whiter than white, Minister,” Humphrey replied. “I dare say he thought it might play better in the polls, later on.”

“And what do these disclosures show?”

“Well, perhaps the most interesting is the disclosure of the sum that Mr Brawton is paid for his weekly column, from the Mulcaire newspaper group. He has registered a per-column income of seven hundred pounds.”

“Seven hundred! I thought he was only getting five,” Jim grumbled.

“The Mulcaire group, of course, have been known recently for their vociferous lobbying against the competition bill. The bill, if passed into law, would require Mulcaire’s future acquisitions in UK media to be referred to a parliamentary committee, which is likely to prevent his acquisition of ITV, a move already blocked two years ago by the Lords under older competition laws.”

“But there is no suggestion of Brawton directly lobbying on Mulcaire’s behalf,” the presenter cut in hurriedly. Jim suspected his ear-piece had probably just exploded with the voice of the corporation lawyer.

“Of course not,” Geoffrey agreed. “Nonetheless, Mr Brawton may face some awkward questions from his former constituents when he stands for re-election. Back to you.”

Jim sat back in his chair with a deep sigh. “Well,” He said. “Do you think he will get back in?”

“In a heartland constituency? With an average income of less than ten thousand a year? Only if your party fails to field competent opposition.”

Jim thought about this for a moment. “We will have to see about that then.” He stood up and began packing papers into his briefcase. “Anyway, the PM is happy. Charles will oversee the opposition, make sure this referendum doesn't get out of hand.”

“I suppose if he must have it, that is probably the best we can hope for,” Humphrey replied. He sounded less resigned than Jim had expected.

As he reached the door Jim turned back. “Oh, Humphrey?”

Humphrey, who had been compulsively tidying the desk, paused. “Yes, Minister?”

“Have you spoken to Sir Arnold today?”

“He declared himself satisfied with the way things have turned out.”

Jim grinned. “Why, Humphrey, you are practically glowing.”

“I thought it a satisfactory response, Minister.”

“Of course you did, Humphrey. And are you satisfied with the way things have turned out?”

A brief glimmer of an almost predatory smile crossed Humphrey’s face. “Yes, Minister.”


End file.
